Page 166 of Wild Then Wed
There are two robes folded at the foot of the bed, a pair of slippers beneath each one. Monogrammed.
I blink at the “H” stitched into the collar like it belongs to me. LikeIbelong here.
“Wren?” he says, coming up beside me.
I don’t answer right away. I’m still staring at the bed, trying not to panic about how close we’ll be. How much of me he might hear if I breathe too hard. If I dream too loud. If I forget, even for a second, that this isn’t real.
I finally look away from the bed, if only to give my brain something else to latch onto. That’s when I see our suitcases and duffel bags lined neatly on a velvet couch near the far wall. Above it, a massive flat screen flickers with the hotel’s welcome channel.
My eyebrows pull together. “Wait. How did our stuff get up here already?”
Sawyer chuckles under his breath. “Bellhop must’ve brought it up while we were still downstairs.”
I glance back at him, but don’t say anything.
“I know it’s a lot,” he says, voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to…overwhelm you. I just thought booking something nicer might be a decent way to say thanks. For coming. For doing this with me.”
I give him a tight smile. “It’s beautiful. Honestly. I’m afraid to touch anything.”
He laughs at that, and it’s warm. Uncomplicated. Like he’s relieved I didn’t bolt at the door.
He walks toward the couch and gestures toward it, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable place to sleep. “This works for me if you want the bed.”
I snort. “No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t work for me or for you.”
He raises a brow.
“That thing barely fits Hank,” I say, nodding at the loveseat. “You’d be curled up like a pretzel and then wake up shaped like one.”
He smiles again, that same polite, easy expression, like he doesn’t want to push me into anything. But it’s written all over him—he knew the couch was a joke the second he offered. His legs alone would hang off both ends.
“It’s fine,” I say, a little firmer now. “The bed is massive. We probably won’t even know the other one’s there.”
I turn before he can respond, drawn toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room. I hadn’t realized one of the panels was actually a sliding door until I get close and catch the handle. I open it slowly, the night air spilling into the room, cool and clean and tinged with the faint scent of concrete after rain.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
There’s a balcony. A wide one. With a private jacuzzi bubbling in the corner and two chaise lounges facing the city like they belong in a travel ad.
And the view—God.
The skyline stretches for miles, all lit up and glinting, like someone spilled a jar of gold glitter across the pavement. Cars trace red and white ribbons through the dark, headlights weaving between buildings that blink and shine like stars. The sky above is still, velvet black, only a few faint constellations managing to break through the city haze.
It’s quiet out here, somehow. Not the type of quiet that feels eerie or staged—but the type that settles over your shoulders and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Sawyer steps up behind me but doesn’t say anything. Just stands there. Close enough to feel but not enough to crowd me.
I grip the railing with both hands and try to remember that this istemporary.All of it—me, him, this view. Nothing more than a beautiful blip. A room we’ll have to leave eventually.
Still, I don’t move. Not yet. There’s something about this night—the stillness, the warmth behind me, the city glittering like it’s performing just for us—that makes it hard to turn around.
Sawyer leans on the railing, forearms resting there like he’s done it a thousand times. His biceps shift as he moves, easy and unbothered, all quiet strength and zero awareness of it. Hedoesn’t look like someone who could be pushed off balance—not by gravity, not by much of anything.
I glance at him—just to look.
His profile is sharp—strong jaw, high cheekbone, that effortless stillness he carries without realizing. A trace of stubble darkens his skin, like he shaved yesterday morning and hasn’t thought about it since. But it’s his mouth I keep coming back to.
The bottom one is full, shaped with a slight dip in the center, a soft crease that stays even when he’s speaking. The top is thinner, more precise, curving into a bow that makes him look thoughtful even when he isn’t trying. They’re slightly dry, the texture uneven, with a small, healed split near the corner. Still, they look warm. Real.
